


'Cause I'm A Fool For You

by lavender_euro505



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: British Culture, Christmas, England - Freeform, Français | French, Gibson's Real Name Is Philippe Hugo Guillet, M/M, newcastle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:20:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28243041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavender_euro505/pseuds/lavender_euro505
Summary: Philippe, an international student in his last year at uni, wants to make the most of the holiday season in Newcastle, England. With his colleagues, Collins and Farrier away on holiday, Philippe tries to keep the seasonal depression at bay with the help of a communications major that he tutors in French.
Relationships: Gibson/Tommy (Dunkirk), Peter Dawson/George Mills
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I really, really wanted to participate in the winter/holiday/Christmas prompt challenge by Dunkirk-Creators...but yet again, I missed the deadline haha. What is new? Anyway, I hope you're all enjoying the season and doing well. This is especially for those battling depression in a foreign place, during the holidays, and wondering why you feel misunderstood. 
> 
> With much love. x
> 
> Title is from 'Suck It & See' by Arctic Monkeys
> 
> Disclaimer: All Dunkirk characters are not of my own creation and I do not own them.

“Are you staying on for the holidays or are you planning to head back home?”

_It was a simple question._

Philippe fish mouthed for a moment, staring wide-eyed at the therapist. _Why were words so hard?_

He shook his head, eyes downcast. Without looking up again, Philippe noted that she was taking a few notes here and there, and he wondered what she could possibly be annotating about his state. 

It was December in Newcastle, England and like the fair and freckled woman sitting in front of him had mentioned, it was one of the most difficult months for most international students like him. Philippe had been warned before he’d left of the seasonal depression he might experience, but nothing had prepared him for the five British housemates that he’d have, whose only remarks to him were ones of criticism about his accent and his fervent dedication to his work. He’d made a promise to himself that he would use his last year in England to further his research in linguistics and make the most of getting involved in British culture and customs. Imagine, then, his excitement when he discovered that he’d be living in a shared house with other British students.

However, apparently, they were expecting some other person, someone better, but ended up with him. He kept to himself most days when he worked from home, but usually he was holed up in a corner of the library reading, researching, or writing for his dissertation. It was his last year and down to the wire. He’d been there for nearly two years and hadn’t managed to make one real friend, through no fault of his own, he told himself. 

It took until now for him to believe it. Maybe he just didn’t understand the British enough? Maybe they didn’t understand him? _That must be it,_ he mused, avoiding the therapist’s eyes. _It was him._

Candice, the therapist was called, tilted her head to consider him after a moment. He tore his eyes away from looking at his hands and finally met her eyes. Candice gave him an encouraging grin and nod. 

“So,” she rolled her mechanical pencil between her fingers. “You’ll be staying, I take it?” Philippe nods affirmatively, the minimum. He wished he wasn’t.

“I--yes, I decided to stay. I will go home again in the summer… for good. But for now,” Philippe looks down at his hands, twisted in each other. “I will stay.” This makes Candice grin full on. 

“That’s great, Philippe. Newcastle is lovely in December. There’s lots of events put on by the university and the city. I can show you the calendar and maybe you can take a pick of something you’ll like?” Events in the city, Philippe considered, could be nice if he had a friend to go with. He could ask his colleagues, Collins and Farrier, but they were headed up to Scotland at the weekend to spend Christmas with Collins’ family. Who else could he spend time with?

His cheeks burned, guilty for even considering it, but perhaps he could ask Tommy? The young communications' major that he’d been tutoring hadn’t mentioned going home for the holidays… at least not yet. Candice tilts her head at him again, directing his thoughts back to the events calendar.

“Ice skating is always good fun. Have you ever been?” Philippe shakes his head, mirroring Candice’s encouraging grin. 

“Maybe I will try it.” Maybe he could go with Tommy.

“Should do. Pick out a few more things that you could do while you’re here then. It will make the time a lot better for you. In the meanwhile,” she takes out a slip of paper from her desk. “I’ll give this to you to read over during the week. Just complete it and return it to our office to make another appointment, areet?” 

Philippe’s brow furrows as he takes the paper between his hands, mouth twisting at the ‘X’ where his signature should go. 

“Give it a think over the weekend. Have a look at the calendar and make plans to attend a few things. Then, we’ll schedule you in for another appointment.” 

Philippe looks up to see Candice standing now, arms in front and hands gathered loosely in front of her. It was the last day before winter break and it was nearly four o’clock. Pursing his lips together, he stands nearly stumbling backwards into his seat again. Clearing his throat, his thanks and good-bye are both soft and strangled. The scarf that he bound around and around his throat as he met the winter cold barely blocked out the gusts of winds at every corner. Thankfully, it was a short ten minute walk to a nearby cafe. Philippe had a longing taste for coffee and a scone. 

Settled in the warmth of Le Petit Choux, a strawberry scone slathered in a generous helping of butter and a cappuccino steaming in front of him, Philippe takes out the form Candice had given him earlier. He sighs, skimming the words as their dark letters blurred together. Frowning, Philippe crushes the paper in his hands, stuffing it into the far recesses of his coat. Sighing, he looks out the window, sipping his drink.

He didn’t use to feel this way. 

It was the first time since arriving and studying in England that he’d made an appointment to see a university therapist. It unsettled him a bit, if he were being honest. Despite doing exceptionally well in his courses, getting on with most of his colleagues and module leaders, he still hadn’t found a real friend to confide in. Of course, there was Collins and Farrier, as kind and teasing as they could be were an anomaly, Philippe found. When he met Farrier, Collins wasn’t far behind. They were a package deal, really and despite enjoying their company and nights out at the bar, he couldn’t help the nagging feeling that he was simply a third wheel. He sets his cup down, ready to dig into his scone, but as he does, something bright catches his eye.

Philippe can just make out a yellow raincoat, not too far across the street, waiting to cross and walk toward the cafe. His mouth turns up into a little grin. On rather rainy days, he’d find Tommy waiting outside for him, hood up, round glasses on, wearing scuffed up Adidas trainers. It was the crooked toothed smile that he gave Philippe, as the Frenchman greeted him with a soft salut, that caught Philippe’s breath in his throat. 

Looking across the street now, the one in the yellow raincoat comes closer and closer. Philippe’s eyes watch as the bloke pulls up the hood to cover his short, dark hair, frames on his face becoming more clear. Moving his scone aside, Philippe can’t help the wide grin that breaks across his face as the person jumps over a puddle, landing with the grace of a cat. The raincoat’s hood falls away to reveal the guy’s hair, ruffled across his forehead, now only several meters from the cafe where Philippe was. The boy looks up, eyes zeroed in on the cafe, and Philippe feels like they bore right through his soul. He tries distracting himself with his cappuccino and ends up spilling it over his chin, merde, he whispers wiping his fingers across his lips. Pushing away his drink, he looks back up to see Tommy’s freckled face meeting his gaze through the window. The yellow raincoat hides his hair once more. 

Philippe returns the grin, mouthing to him, _salut._

It felt almost like the first time they’d met and many, many more after that. Fringe plastered to his forehead, Tommy quickly swipes at the brown strands as they dare to hang in his eyes, obscuring his view. Tommy tips his head toward the cafe and Philippe sits up a bit straighter in his seat. He was alone, an empty chair beside him and a half eaten scone. 

When Philippe looks back up at him, the appointment and counseling form from earlier is long forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the last French tutoring session of the semester and Tommy has a slight change of plans.

Their last Master’s seminar had just wrapped up as Philippe caught both Collins and Farrier outside, huddled together, with steaming mugs and ruddy cheeks. Philippe had wanted a silent exit back home, but now he felt like he was intruding upon some secret rendezvous between his classmates. Before he could mumble out a hurried apology, clutching the last bits of his dissertation to his chest, Farrier breaks away from his gaze on Collins and waves Philippe over. Philippe goes reluctantly after Collins gives him a reassuring head nod. 

“Hi, boys.” Certainly not boys, nearly five years his senior, the pair of them, but huddled together in secrecy like they might have been at primary school. Collins nods again, going for a sip of his drink, when Farrier raises his in Philippe’s direction. 

Collins tips his head at him as he asks, “Off home then, Phil?”

In place of a reply Philippe nods, gesturing to the packet of papers in his gloved hands. 

“Lots of work to do, yes.” 

Farrier blows a raspberry at that, “Bollocks, really? Going home to mum and dad just to do work over the holidays? Give yourself a break, eh, Gibson.” 

“Aye.” Collins agreed, huddling closer to his boyfriend with a small grin. They’d both taken to the nickname, Gibson, after finding a few old YouTube videos Philippe had made in his youth when he’d thought a career as a singer was in the cards. Philippe instead shakes his head, a crease in his brow.

“ _Non,_ ” he raises the papers in front of him. “I’m staying ‘ere.” Farrier’s face crumples in confusion. 

“ _Staying?_ ”

“ _Here?_ ” Collins echoes, incredulous. “What’s here to stay for?” 

Not so much a _what_ , but a _who_ , he tells himself. 

“Eh, my work,” he says instead.

Farrier simpy narrows his eyes when Philippe gives them a noncommittal shrug and downcast eyes, almost revealing nothing. 

“Got someone you’re romancing, then?” Philippe has to choke out a laugh, because if tutoring in French is romance now, then….

“My work, you know... the dissertation,” he tries to throw them off the subject, holding up his papers again. He hadn’t admitted, barely to himself, how he feels toward Tommy. Besides, he was still tutoring him and he thought the London native was clearly off limits. 

But this time Collins is blowing a raspberry, catching Philippe’s bluff. 

“Oh come off it, Gib. We all know about your little tutoring sessions with our Tommy.”

“Wait, what?”

Unfortunately, they also had Tommy in their communication seminars twice a week, so they were quite fond and familiar with the boy. Once or twice Philippe’s name had been brought up between the three of them, with Tommy always asking here and there about Philippe.

The sound of his name coming from Collins throws Philippe off a bit, but he hopes he remains nonchalant. It’s true, he’d been tutoring Tommy consistently for nearly two months in French after he’d been personally requested. Philippe genuinely thought absolutely nothing of it until rumor had it that Tommy simply fancied the pants off Philippe. The Frenchman merely took it all with a grain of salt until his colleagues and Tommy’s seminar leaders, Collins and Farrier, started teasing Philippe about it… endlessly. 

Again, like schoolboys. 

Philippe feigns stoic disinterest in the subject, lest he be found out. There was no way that Tommy, a second-year student, adored someone like studious and serious _Philippe_. He was much rather suited, Philippe felt, to the tall, brown-haired one that Tommy always seemed to be around. He appeared rather keen on him, if Philippe was being honest. 

“Our last session is today. I’m sure he will be very busy with visiting his family.” At least, that’s what Philippe kept telling himself to stay in denial. Collins was having none of it.

He rolls his eyes, “oh I’m sure he will be, but knowing him you won’t be far from his mind, lad.” Philippe’s eyebrows furrow like he doesn’t understand. 

“Talks about French a lot in class, doesn’t he?” Farrier nods, agreeing, nose nearly diving into his mug of tea. “Think he does it to bring you up in conversation.” 

“Doesn’t even realise he’s doing it on occasion.” Farrier adds. “That’s how we finally found out you’re the one tutoring him.” 

Philippe’s eyes widened. He had no idea Tommy talked so much about him. 

“Told him we’re mates and he’d gone so red, man! Thought he’d combust right there,” Farrier laughs at the memory, but Philippe suddenly feels unsettled. This was news to him, or had he just been _that_ oblivious to Tommy's feelings? It wasn’t hard to miss Tommy’s attractiveness, sure, but Philippe would never let that get in the way of his teaching. He was a professional, if anything. He had a strict code of ethics where that was concerned. Plus, he feared the repercussions if people thought that the Frenchman was seducing students instead of tutoring them. Collins and Farrier wave him off though, rolling their eyes. 

“Don’t worry, lad,” Collins says. “Nothing wrong with it. Not like you’re getting paid to tutor him, yeah?” Philippe chews his lip as Farrier slaps an arm around his shoulders, grinning widely.

“You’ve no authority over him, so go on then.” Philippe blanches at that. 

“Feels wrong,” he mumbles.

Collins chuckles. “Wait 'till he invites you home for Christmas dinner, lad. Serious then.” Philippe can see a red flush cross Farrier’s face, as Collins sends him a very cheeky smirk. Collins couldn't care less about the Christmas fuss, but Farrier insisted they see their families for the holidays while they could.

 _Maybe after the holidays, Collins and Farrier would come back wearing matching rings on their fingers,_ Philippe thought, waving them good-bye. He looks at his watch and gets a move on. 

Heading home in a rush Philippe unpacks the rest of his belongings and schoolwork, as it’s a twenty minute stroll from the main campus to the shared house where he lives and not too long until his tutoring session with Tommy. He’s walking through the front entrance as a text from Tommy pings on his phone, just fifteen minutes before their last session. 

**Tommy:** Can’t believe it’s the last session! Is it alright if we meet somewhere a bit more private?

That was the last thing he was expecting Tommy to ask. They’d agreed to meet again at their usual place in the Modern Languages Department of the Old Library. Now, he wanted to meet privately? They already had a room to themselves in their usual meeting place. What could Tommy mean then?

 **Philippe:** Mais oui Tommy. Quand? 

**Tommy:** Mine or yours?

His place was a bit of a tip, what with five other people living there and none of them hardly fond of housework. His housemates were out at the moment, so who knows how long they’d have peace and quiet, plus the privacy Tommy so curiously requested. He checks their house group chat in Whatsapp, but there weren’t any new messages, except for a few updates about heading home for the holidays. He should take advantage while everyone is still out. 

Philippe felt an excitement go through him, as he changes out of his clothes and hops into the shower. A quick rinse from the day didn’t hurt, he thought. Nor did the time spent on the unruly curls of his hair, choosing between a thick cable knit sweater and a cardigan, and worrying over whether to put on red socks or black. 

His phone pings again. 

**Tommy:** What do you reckon?

A zip of heat goes down Philippe’s spine, but he ignores it to type out a measured reply. Philippe’s previous conversation with Farrier and Collins adds to the feeling. The aching curiosity to discover if the rumors about how Tommy feels actually contained any truth had him answering hurriedly. 

**Philippe:** Mine?

 **Tommy:** Yours. :) See you then!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift exchange later and the truth comes out. Philippe's housemates are kinda shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not speak French. Thank you, Google Translate and Context Reverso.

Tommy was actually nervous as fuck despite the two shots of whiskey Peter and Alex were passing one by one toward him across their kitchen table. Pools of it pebbled across the glass top as Tommy knocked them back in a matter of seconds. 

“Thaaassa good lad!” Peter cheers, slapping Tommy on the back with a flat palm. 

“Well what’d he say then? He reply?” Tommy sways a bit on his feet. He never could drink liquor at four o’clock. 

“Umm,” he’s fumbling for his phone, looking through the kitchen settee pillows, his backpack, Peter’s backpack... 

Peter raises an eyebrow at him, “Y’alright there, mate? Your phone’s in your pocket.” Tommy nearly rips his trousers trying to fish it out of his pocket as it pings in his hands. 

He looks up at Peter and Alex, grinning. 

“I’m going to his...” his smile quickly fades into acute panic. “Fucking shit, I’m going to his!” Alex rolls his eyes, arms crossed, loving the flustered look spreading across Tommy’s face. 

“Now then,” Alex nods to Peter and the blond pulls a gold package from his bag. 

“We got the French bugger a little Christmas present.” Peter tells Tommy, a hint of a smirk on his face. Tommy quirks up an eyebrow, turning the box over in his hands. 

“For Philippe?” 

“From all of us,” Alex answers, tipping back his own shot of whiskey. “But mostly from you. I’m sure he’ll put it to good use.” 

Peter has to choke down a laugh, tugging his backpack over his shoulder. Tommy narrows his eyes at both of them, sure that he won’t like this, but he decides to stuff the new present, along with the bottle of Bordeaux and concert tickets he’d forked over most of his extra pocket change for, into his backpack. 

“Have fun, Tom,” Peter says, waggling his eyebrows, halfway out the door. “I’m off to George’s for hot cocoa and a marathon of Bake Off.” 

“All finished up with primary school our George?” Alex teases.

“Ah, piss off, Alex,” Peter’s out their flat door, but not before giving Alex a two-finger salute, with Tommy trailing after him. Tommy had missed the eruption of laughter following their departure when Alex told them he’d gift wrapped a box of rubbers and lube as a gift to Philippe. 

Tommy had been briefly to Philippe’s before. After sessions, they’d often spend hours chatting about music, once making a pit stop to Philippe’s house for a quick drink and a snack. They hadn’t gone further than the kitchen. Still, Tommy could see by the looks of things that Philippe lived in a house full of others who seemed to hardly occupy the space at all. A chores list was put up on the front of a shared fridge where it seemed only two of the six people living there kept up with the housework. The main reason why Philippe’s room was usually in a tip, Philippe had admitted to Tommy, as he refused to let Tommy see his bedroom on one visit. His room was usually neglected in favour of clearing up messes elsewhere in the house. Philippe hardly bothered; no one was interested in his bedroom anyway. 

Tommy wondered as he made his way up the narrow brick street past familiar blue bins if he’d be so lucky today. If only to see his room, of course. Nothing more. _Obviously,_ Tommy told himself, rolling his eyes. _God, he could be such a child._ His legs felt like jelly, standing in front of Philippe’s door and Tommy couldn’t put away the familiar thrum of anticipation. He felt like a bloody teenager again. 

It was no secret that Tommy had a super massive crush on Philippe. It’d been a joke at first, between him, Alex, and Peter. He was sure it was obvious to Philippe too, the Frenchman was just being polite, _professional_ and ignoring it.

Alex dared the second-year once to ask the quiet French seminar leader to tutor him for the semester, as Tommy was reportedly doing poorly in his French modules. Peter made a bet that Tommy would never go through with it, being far too bashful for anything of the sort. A shot of whiskey and two months on, Peter still owed Alex fifty pounds. 

The whiskey swimming in his belly now seemed to warm his chest with a feverish heat. He could see his hand trembling as he rang the bell, putting the bet far from his mind. There was a thump from the other side of the door, a loud merde and the sound of feet running across the floor before Philippe was soon revealed looking rosy cheeked and smelling like chocolate. His hair was purposely disheveled, or at least Tommy had hoped, and he looked absolutely cosy in a thick forest green cable knit sweater that seemed to match the dark, intense color of his eyes. His fitted tweed pants left little to the imagination, highlighting the strength and brawn of his thighs. God, snap out of it Tommy!

“Tommy? _Salut!_ ”

The Englishman blinked up at him and tried fervently not to dwell on his appearance as he let out a breath, a puff of white leaving his lips as he did so. Philippe’s cheek dimples slightly as he practically pulls Tommy inside from the cold wind, immediately asking for Tommy's coat and scarf as they make their way in from the entrance. Philippe hung Tommy’s winter clothes delicately in the front closet and offered to take his heavy backpack as well, but Tommy simply clutched it to himself protectively. 

“No, er, that’s alright. I’ve got it, thanks.” Philippe nods in a silent response before leading Tommy toward the kitchen where the smell of chocolate was getting thicker. 

Philippe waves his hand at the hob, _“Chocolat chaud?_ Or I have tea?” He even made a show of displaying the exact tea he knew Tommy usually took, but it seemed Philippe was rather keen on the chocolate today, so he decided for something different. 

“ _Chocolat chaud, s'il te plait._ " Tommy cringes internally at his accent, but Philippe simply beams, before turning to choose a mug for his guest. It gives Tommy a chance to look about the kitchen, catching sight of a pink Christmas tree nestled in one corner, surrounded by gifts, a row of candles sitting in the windowsill near the sink, and homemade snowflakes bunting around the table. A holiday themed collage decorated the front of the fridge, right next to the chore list, and Tommy couldn’t help but wonder if there was a card from Philippe’s family pinned up. His eyes search for a Joyeux Noel. 

Sitting his backpack at his side, Tommy begins pulling out the presents while Philippe was temporarily distracted with the hot chocolate: wine, concert tickets, and then whatever the lads had gifted him. 

Philippe turns back to the table with two mugs and an easy grin, where Tommy was waiting, leg shaking underneath the table. 

Philippe notices the bottle of wine on the table in front of Tommy, placing a yellow mug within his reach. He grins.

“ _Merci.”_ Tommy whispers, bashful eyelashes fluttering closed as he took a moment to inhale the chocolate scent. 

Tommy pushed a thin gift wrapped present toward Philippe as the Frenchman raised a pair of curious eyebrows his way. He hadn’t even considered Tommy engaging in a gift exchange, but thankfully now the gift that he had stowed away for Tommy in his room wasn’t one picked out in vain. 

Philippe’s eyes look up at the gentle timbre of Tommy’s voice. 

“I thought maybe you’d like it?” He rubs at his neck, face a bit flushed, despite the draft in the flat. 

Philippe tears at the wrapping delicately. An envelope is uncovered and out slips two thin pieces of paper. Tommy holds his breath, grabbing his mug of hot chocolate to distract himself. 

When Philippe gasps, Tommy looks up to see his tutor’s face positively light up. Philippe shakes his head, fishmouthing at Tommy, at a complete loss for words. He waves the tickets in front of him instead. 

Tommy can’t help the smile that breaks across his face. “So you like it then? You mentioned having not been to one, and you mentioned listening to his music before and I liked his too, actually, from what you sent me. I’d never heard of him before, but he’s from around the area, right?” With Tommy’s rambling, Philippe can’t get a word in edgewise, the boy nearly red in the face trying to explain away his gift. Little did they know, he had much more to explain away. 

“Anyway,” Tommy sucks in a breath. “Hope you like it.” He finishes his spiel with a tiny grin, tearing his eyes away from Philippe. The latter just laughs and he can barely contain himself as he goes over to give Tommy a sideways hug. 

“It’s perfect. I love Jake Houlsby’s music, so I think it will be great,” Philippe slides back into his seat. “ _Merci inifiniment,_ Tommy.” 

Tommy lets out a breath. At least he really liked it. Maybe he’d use the extra ticket to invite a friend along?

Tommy slides the second gift in front of him. Philippe eyes the wine again and then the other gift. 

“They’re both for you-- the wine and _this,_ ” he nods his head to the boxed shape wrapped in gold just within Philippe’s fingertips. 

“Tommy…” The boy in question picks up his mug again for something to do.

“It’s actually a gift from my mates to you.”

Philippe looks up, surprised. 

“To me?” 

Tommy nods, mug up to his lips, nose diving in. When he puts the cup down again, he has a chocolate moustache. Philippe can’t help but laugh. Tommy licks his tongue up at the sweetness. He raises his eyebrows at Philippe in question.

“ _Il n’y en a plus?_ (Is it all gone?)” Tommy asks, giggling at the end. Philippe jerks his head to the side and before he can think better of it, he’s reaching across the small table, swiping the last bit of chocolate from the corner of Tommy’s lip. He can feel the moment Tommy goes still under his touch, hazel eyes bright, watching Philippe. The Frenchman was merely inches away from Tommy’s face, the breaths intermingling now. _Ne regarde pas ses lèvres, ne regarde pas ses lèvres, ne regarde pas ses lèvres,_ Philippe chants in his mind, eyes looking anywhere except for Tommy’s lips. 

It’s Tommy clearing his throat that sends Philippe sitting back into his chair, chest feeling tight.

“Thanks, er, _merci._ ” Tommy squeaks out, voice breaking on his vowels, yet it's Philippe who goes red in the face. He tries to shove it all down, refocusing on the gift in front of him. Well, things can’t possibly get more awkward can they? 

“ _Attendez…_ ” Philippe jumps up from his seat, gift still sitting on the table. Before he disappears completely, he pops his head around the doorframe.

“I have a gift too… _un echange._ ” He leaves Tommy with a smile, a curious look stretching across the young student’s features. He wondered what Philippe had gotten him. 

Philippe slides back into the kitchen, rosy cheeked, and smiling. 

“ _Voila!_ ” He shakes an impeccably wrapped present in front of Tommy, who’s laughing and reaching for the gift in Philippe’s outstretched arms. 

“Give it here, then!” Tommy flips the gift around in his hands. It felt weighted. Square. Thin, but not thick. A book? He squints his eyes at Philippe as the Frenchman goes to his seat in front of Tommy again. 

“ _Alor, sur trois, d’accord?_ ” Tommy nods, waiting for Philippe to count down. He can’t take his eyes away from him as the Frenchman begins: _un, deux, trois…_

Between the rips of gold and silver paper, Tommy can faintly hear voices wafting in through the front room. He tries doing three things at once: listening to who was coming closer toward them from the entrance, flipping over his gift to reveal a silver CD with Philippe’s neat handwriting, and watching a bright blue bottle that flips out of Philippe’s hand spinning across the floor. Philippe watches as it slides to a halt in front of one of his housemate’s barefeet. 

It looked oddly familiar, Tommy thought. The bottle, obviously, not the feet. He narrows his eyes trying to remember where he knew it from, the bright- almost obnoxious blue- unmistakable. 

The minute he hears Philippe’s housemate, a tall, rather built, blond guy chuckle lewdly at them, he nearly loses his breath. Waving the bottle in the air, he raises his eyebrows at them both. 

“Gonna be a lucky night for someone?” Without returning the bottle, he merely waltzes over toward the table, hips first, with a smug grin. 

Philippe furrows his brow. “What do you mean, Stephen?” 

Tommy is stock still, glued to his seat, voiceless. _Fucking_ Alex and Peter... 

“What do I _mean?_ ” Stephen eyes Philippe with a raised eyebrow, probably manicured, Tommy guesses. Stephen tips back the red Bordeaux on the table, eyes Tommy’s new mixtape, looks down at the bottle in his hands and tosses it onto the table. 

Tommy and Philippe both watch as the bottle topples over, narrowly missing Philippe’s now cold hot chocolate. Maybe when they’re all distracted, Tommy could make the bottle disappear. 

“Alright, Phil? You still hanging about?” Another voice wafts through the kitchen, and the three boys look up to see a woman, about Tommy’s age wearing nothing but a white slip and red lipstick. 

“Maybe we should take this to yours, Abby,” Stephen flicks his eyes back to Philippe. “This one looks like he’ll be busy tonight before he goes back home.” 

Abby laughs, skipping into the kitchen, also barefooted. She stops at the hob, inspecting the pot of hot chocolate. 

“This any good?” She scrunches up her nose, gesturing toward Philippe for an answer. He sighs, turning back to his gifts. 

“ _Ouais…_ ” 

Tommy clatters to the table as he grabs the bottle. 

“Philippe, this wasn’t-- _I didn’t know_ \--” Stephen’s eyes go wide. 

“Oh, so _you’re_ the one trying to seduce his tutor then?” Philippe copies his expression, looking at the bottle Tommy was trying to hide. 

"Actually, he's my private tutor, so." Tommy mumbles. 

Stephen levels him with a reproachful look. "Keep telling yourself that, mate." Tommy could tell Stephen was just taking the piss, but still. 

There was no doubt about it. Tommy had gifted him lube. 

Philippe looks down at the half-unwrapped gift in his hands and tears the rest of the gold wrapping away. 

Tommy blanches. 

“Safety first, eh?” Stephen winks with a laugh, following Abby for the hot chocolate. 

Abby putters about in the cabinets, “I thought Frenchmen don’t believe in condoms, though?” Stephen flicks at her nipple showing through her slip. 

“That’s Italians, babes.” He rolls his eyes, and leans in to give her an obnoxiously open mouthed kiss. 

Tommy feels like his soul has left his body as more people, presumably Philippe’s housemates, file into the kitchen asking for hot chocolate and looking curiously at Tommy, Philippe and the bottle of lube and condoms between them. 

“Philippe, aren’t you going home soon? It’s nearly Christmas.” A raven haired guy, with piercing blue eyes and a very posh tone questions him, mug of hot chocolate at his lips. 

“He’s staying here, remember?” A petite, red-haired woman with two piercings in her nose, flicks the posh guy on the arm. 

“How was I meant to know, Hannah? He’s never here!” Hannah rolls his eyes at his excuse. 

“Could’ve asked in the GC, Oliver. Are you staying or are you going?” She pretends to type on an imaginary phone. Oliver scoffs at her, leaning against the far wall next to Tommy. 

Oliver mouths silently to Stephen from across the room. “Who is this?” 

“That’s _Tommy._ The French student.” Stephen winks at Tommy from across the room as he pulls Abby to his side, leading her out of the room with a squeal. A shiver goes down Tommy’s spine as he grabs the bottle of lube, trying to stuff it back into his backpack. He leans into the table, trying to whisper loud enough for only Philippe to hear him. 

_“Je suis vraiment désolé pour ça…”_ Philippe shakes his head, blushing at the box in his hands. 

“Well,” Oliver comes around the other side of the table, where Philippe was, “What are you going to do here? We’re all off to our parents' houses for Christmas.” 

“Are you here by yourself then, Phil?” Hannah asks, stirring a candy cane into her mug of chocolate. 

Philippe’s face grows redder as Tommy looks at him, waiting for an answer. 

Oliver frowns, watching Philippe’s nod, and tuts in response. “Shame, isn’t it? Does your family not celebrate Christmas?” Hannah nudges him hard in the ribs. 

“Shut up, Oli. He’s probably Jewish, he just didn’t want to say.” She gestures toward the candles in the windowsill, and Tommy watches as Oliver’s face considers this as an explanation as he shrugs his shoulders. 

“There's nothing wrong with being Jewish, _obviously._ It's just... well, we’re all leaving the day after tomorrow--” 

Oliver’s comment is cut off by the voices of two other people coming into the kitchen. 

“That was a sick restaurant, wasn’t it? Hey Oli, thanks for the invite, mate. You can see all of Northumberland Street from the--” The brown haired boy with a crew cut and tattoo across his neck stops mid-sentence, as Hannah and Oliver mouth at him to shut the fuck up. The boy in question frowns, looking back at the other person trailing behind him, a tall girl with orange skin and thick, dark eyebrows. 

“Oh,” the brown haired guy snaps his mouth shut, nodding to Philippe. “Alright, Phil?” 

Philippe responds, just as tight lipped. “Greg.” The girl behind Greg, Philippe’s last housemate, frowns in his direction. 

“I thought you’d left Phil, like you’d gone ‘ome already to France?” Hannah rolls her eyes, crossing her arms in front of her. 

“For God’s sake, I _told_ you he was staying here, Emma.” 

Philippe reaches for his and Tommy’s gifts, stuffing them into Tommy’s open backpack beside him, zipping it up and hauling it over his shoulder. He grabs their mugs and swivels around the crowd of people to an open doorway. 

“I always leave extra early in the morning, that way I have someone to eat breakfast with,” his voice breaks at the end. “I only told Hannah I am staying because she asked me. She asked me.” Tommy turns to look at the chore list on the fridge again and could only guess who the two people in the house did more than their fair share of work. 

“You could’ve told us though,” Oliver pipes up. “We’d been talking about it in the chat.” 

“Too bad you couldn’t go to the Thai restaurant, though,” Emma raises her dark eyebrows up, eyes wide and innocent. “Never thought I’d have Thai food four days before Christmas, like.” This time, Greg nudges her in the side and she makes a pouty face at him. Tommy looks back at Philippe still stood in the doorway. 

His eyes are wide, staring back at Emma, refusing to look at anyone else. 

_“Je n’ai pas ete invite…_ (I wasn’t invited…)” Philippe bites his lip, hiking up the backpack around his shoulder and turning away to dash up to his room. 

No one says anything, silent, except for Philippe’s retreating footsteps and the hot chocolate bubbling on the hob. 

“I didn’t know he wasn’t invited!” Greg hisses at Oliver’s direction. Tommy’s chair screeches across the linoleum floor as he stands. Hannah, Oliver, Emma and Greg all look in his direction with wide-eyed, guilty faces. 

“I better go after him,” he clears his throat, head held high and eyes narrowed at the four of them. “Merry fucking Christmas and that.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philippe and Tommy have a *heady* chat.

Tommy finds Philippe with wine stained lips and Tommy’s gifts scattered by his side. Tommy cringes internally, silently closing the door to Philippe’s room upstairs. 

He nearly falls into the Frenchman’s lap as he sits next to him on the carpeted floor. 

“I can’t even cry about it,” he hears Philippe whisper. “I’m not surprised really.” 

“That’s-” Philippe looks at Tommy with a stern stare. Tommy blushes. 

“Sorry, but it’s shitty. They all went out to eat without even telling you? Just because they assumed you were gone? They could’ve asked…” Tommy folds his arms across himself. 

“I mean, clearly Hannah, isn’t that her name? She knew, right? You talked to her?” Philippe nods at that. 

“See? No excuse. And you’ve lived with them for how long?” 

“Almost two years.”

“Two whole years and this is how they treat you? Like, like…” Tommy’s voice goes up, flailing his arms, trying to find the right word. 

“ _A frog?_ ” 

“Yes! Like a-” Tommy stops and looks at Philippe. 

He saw a boy, a few years older than him, with sad, round eyes and a crease between them. He saw someone who’s face he could mould and a body he could melt with the slightest touch because he knew that’s just how sensitive he was. When Philippe got excited, his words came out fast and almost breathless. When he was frustrated or angry, his voice would break, like it did now. Tommy was almost sure he knew what he looked like in love, but the second-year was probably fooling himself. There was no way Philippe looked at him that way. 

“The worst part is,” Philippe’s mouth twists as he picks up the wine bottle and brings it to his lips, taking a very generous drink. “None of them asked me if I’d like to spend Christmas with them.” 

There’s tears in Philippe’s eyes and Tommy knows it probably pains Philippe to have him see the Frenchman like this. 

“Is it selfish of me?” His questions gets clouded with the tears that choke him. Philippe stares at a point across from himself, daring not to look in Tommy’s direction. So much for a memorable last French session, he said to himself. 

“Philippe, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be included,” Before he can think better of it, Tommy reaches out to cover Philippe’s hand with his own. His hands are warm, unlike Tommy’s, nearly icy stretched across the cream coloured carpet. 

Philippe looks down at them, curling his fingers around Tommy’s and pulling them toward his chest. Tommy diligently watches the movement, mesmerized by the steady rise and fall of Philippe’s cosy jumper. _God, he wanted to nestle his face there._

Tommy clears his throat, “I hope it’s, er, not too late to ask…?” Philippe tears his eyes away from their intertwined hands. 

“ _Er, um--vais-tu passer Noel avec moi?_ ” 

Philippe turns to look at their gifts strewn around him. He can’t help the grin and bubbling laugh that erupts from his chest. 

“ _Seulement toi, Tommy?_ ” Tommy takes his hand back to cover his reddening face. 

“Oh my god, I swear, I had no idea! You can thank Peter and Alex for that.” Philippe continues to chuckle, reaching forward to juggle the box and bottle in his hands.

“Should I thank them for these?” 

Tommy’s face goes more red, _if possible,_ mortified. He didn’t even know if he was allowed to fancy his private tutor. 

The blue bottle, in particular, was a Saturday night favourite of his. He’d never admit to anyone that he’d maybe listened to Philippe’s French audio files of him reciting _bloody numbers_ one too many times. 

Tommy can’t see the way Philippe is watching him, wondering what he’s thinking. Perhaps the rumours about Tommy’s adoration were true, Philippe thought. He looked back at the bottle of lube in his hands. But then, perhaps, that’s all it was? Cold, lonely December nights in England with most of the students having left to see family and friends for the holidays, why wouldn’t Tommy wish for a friend to keep him warm at night? 

Something like disappointment fell within Philippe as he considered these feelings being nothing more than that, but certainly nothing less, what with the gifts in his hands. 

“This wasn’t my idea, Philippe. Alex and Peter planned this,” he reaches around Philippe’s lap to show him the concert tickets. “I got you tickets to see Jake because I know how much you like his music and you’d said you wanted to go to a concert this year. Your last year here…” 

Tommy places the tickets in Philippe’s lap. 

“ _Je sais, Tommy,_ ” Philippe drops the box and bottle in favour of reaching out to smooth away Tommy’s fringe that had gotten in his eyes. “Thank you. I was so surprised, you remembered.” The other gifts forgotten, Philippe turns his body now toward Tommy, setting the wine bottle out of the way. His knees brush against Tommy’s thighs, their shoulders merely inches apart. Tommy didn’t miss the way Philippe leaned into him slightly. From this point, Philippe could probably count all of the freckles going across the bridge of Tommy’s nose. 

“I was afraid,” Tommy frowns at that and leans in too. 

“Why?”

Philippe shakes his head. “It was-- I thought it was wrong…” The Frenchman can feel his face heat up, his mind telling him to shut up. He shouldn’t fancy Tommy as he does, that he was only taking advantage of him. 

“What was wrong?” Tommy looks between them. 

“You mean us?” Philippe’s eyes snap up to look at Tommy, their eyes meeting and something in Philippe taking his breath away. A pool of warmth fills at the bottom of his stomach and he’s sure the hasty gulps of wine from earlier didn’t help (or maybe they did) the feeling swooping within him. He imagined Tommy, as close as he was, could maybe smell the Bordeaux on his breath. They had the entire package of a wintry love session at their disposal and Philippe really did have to find it all quite funny: the wine, the rather romantic gesture of the two concert tickets, the condoms, the lube, even the mixtape Philippe had gifted him. Still, Philippe scolds himself for wanting to fit Tommy’s cold hands between the warmth of his thighs. 

The thought makes his blood run hot straight down to the front of his trousers, the ones that left hardly anything to the imagination, Tommy noted. 

“There’s nothing wrong about this,” he hears Tommy whisper, voice low and eyes lidded searching. “I’m an adult.” 

“The university pays me to tutor people, Tommy. Tutor _you,_ ” Philippe can’t look at him, ashamed. “Besides, I’m older.” He hears Tommy scoff at him, nudging his shoulder with his own. 

“So?”

“It’s taking advantage.” Philippe tells him, feeling stubborn about this now, despite feeling himself throb within his pants. 

Tommy just inches closer, holding onto Philippe’s arm, fingers curled around his hardened bicep to pull himself closer to the Frenchman. 

Philippe can smell the chocolate on Tommy’s lips as he whispers, “It’s not taking advantage if I want it too.” 

Suddenly there was not enough air in the room and all Philippe needed was a cold shower or Hannah throwing the door open, startling both boys apart at the abrupt noise. 

“Oh, oh! Sorry, sorry, I thought he’d left, sorry!” She rushes out, looking embarrassed. Philippe shakes his head. 

“It’s alright, Tommy was just leaving,” Philippe refused to look at the absolutely mardy pout on Tommy’s face. He needed to clear his head and the air.

Philippe picks up the mixtape and passes it to Tommy, along with his backpack. 

“Listen to it. We’ll talk later.” 

Tommy looks hurt, but nods anyway. He takes his things and gives Hannah a tight lipped smile as he makes his way out the door. 

Hannah crosses her arms in front of her. 

“Didn’t have to send him away, Phil.” 

“I need to think,” the sigh that leaves his lips is heavy. “I want to be careful with him.” 

“That’s kind of you. If you were anything like Stephen or Greg, you’d be rocking the whole upstairs right now with your wee Christmas gifts.” She tilts her head toward condoms and lube on the floor. 

“Good thing I’m not then. He deserves more than that.” Philippe picks up the wine bottle and re-corks it, setting it on his desk. 

“And Phil?” Hannah calls out, head leaning against the doorframe. “I’m sorry about earlier.” 

It was the least that could’ve been said, yet still it left Philippe feeling hollow inside. 

After Hannah left him alone, Philippe pulls up his messaging app to his last conversation with Tommy. 

**Philippe:** Did you make it home?

 **Tommy:** Yes, thanks

 **Philippe:** I hope your offer is still standing?

The long pause had Philippe worrying his lip as he paced the floor of his room. He’d gone and humiliated him! Kicked him out! His pride was probably now bruised... 

**Philippe:** Les sages disent que seuls les fous se précipitent

 **Tommy:** Well, ig i’m a fool for you

 **Tommy:** And yes, you should defo come round to ours for Christmas dinner. We’re all staying for the holidays too :) You’re more than welcome to join us

 **Tommy:** I hope you do

 _I guess, I’m a fool too,_ Philippe thinks to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last bit will be forthcoming as I'm sure you might be wondering how the Christmas dinner with the Lads will go and what songs did Philippe burn on a mixtape for our dear Tommy???
> 
> What's your fave holiday food or dessert? Comment below! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lads pull themselves together in true “Dunkirk spirit” fashion, without all the war and austerity, to make Christmas dinner a happy affair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter before the epilogue is finally here! Merry late Christmas, everyone. 
> 
> Pure bants in this one, folx. Absolutely no hate to any French, British, Italians, monarchists, people that shop at Waitrose, or Brummies. I wonder how many of you can point out all the points where I nodded to the film Dunkirk, of which I do not own and nor do I own the characters that play in it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it. Epilogue coming shortly along with the playlist. 
> 
> .xx

**_Je t'écris cette chanson comme une lettre; une carte postale que tu liras peut-être._   
(I write this song to you like a letter; a postcard that you might read.)**

**Une lettre - Pierre Lapointe**

It is exactly four days before Christmas and the Lads have done _fuck all._

Tommy is quick to stop the ongoing, frankly childish, snickering of Alex and Peter beside him as he puts his mum on speaker phone. 

Sat in the kitchen for warmth, Tommy had finally pried himself away from the mixtape that Philippe had given him for Christmas. He’d already listened to it at least twenty times by now, taken from the irritated groans from Alex whenever Madness came on. Tommy smiled; he couldn’t be bothered. 

He kicks at their feet underneath the kitchen table, trying to silence them. Tommy had just phoned her to ask about making Yorkshire pudding for Christmas. Of course, rather than giving an answer straight away, Ms. Mary Mackenzie had to have a bit of a go at her son instead. 

Cue the inquisition.

Commence the snickering. 

“Right, well, you’ve better had a good explanation for not coming home for Christmas, Thomas Albert.” 

That’s fair. Tommy will give her that. However, he hadn’t quite thought that far ahead really. When he’d invited Philippe for Christmas dinner that Friday past, it’d been purely out of need and spontaneity. However, factoring in Philippe’s positive response and the expected follow-through of such a dinner had been left to last-minute planning. Honestly, he just wanted to hang out with Philippe more. He hadn’t really considered the actual dinner bit. Besides, Tommy didn’t cook. Call it love? Insanity? Horniness?

Tommy fish mouths, looking wide-eyed at his very unhelpful flat mates for an explanation, or to chime in. Alex, predictably, rolls his bright green eyes. He leans across the table, putting his nose practically on the receiver end. 

“Hiya, Ms. Mackenzie. How are you?” 

Tommy can practically see his mother blushing, despite herself. 

“Oh, Alex! How are you, darling? Alright?” Tommy scoffs, arms folded across himself. Alex smiles, dimples on full display. 

“Nice and cosy,” Alex clears his throat. “Well, actually Tommy is hosting a little dinner here, Ms. Mackenzie, since I don’t celebrate Christmas at home… he thought it might be good for me.” 

Tommy leans back, regarding Alex with a curious look. He’d never once mentioned that before, if it were even true. Peter, sitting beside Alex, wore the same expression. 

Alex gives them all a shit-eating grin. Good god. He was about to come for Tommy’s life.

“But to be perfectly honest with you, Tommy’s looking to entertain a certain friend of his, but y’know, they haven’t quite gotten to the “meet-the-parents-at-Christmas” stage—“ 

Peter has to suppress a loud cackle when Tommy lunges for the phone, but Alex is just quick enough to keep him from it. 

“And,” Alex goes on, at the other side of the kitchen, trying to dodge Tommy. “They’re at the old “it’s-a-cold-and-lonely-December” stage, I’m afraid.” 

Peter is cackling full on watching Tommy scramble for the phone held above his head and Alex’s voice goes high-pitched to get all of his words out. 

“Oh?” They hear Ms. Mackenzie say through the phone. 

“You should see them in their little tutoring sessions,” Alex wiggles his eyebrows.

“Tutoring sessions? Good Lord, it’s Tommy’s tutor?” She sounds perfectly scandalized now. Alex breaks his composure enough to laugh and allow Tommy to reach for the phone again, successfully. 

“Mum! No, no, no - he- er, not my tutor. No, a private tutor. For French. It’s fine.” Tommy tries interrupting any unbidden thoughts she might be having about the nature of this new ‘relationship’ her son was involved in. Alex and Peter are tickled red by now and all Tommy can do is glare at them like a kitten woken up too early. 

He can hear his mother sigh.

“What’s this about a ‘friend’ then? Didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend, love.” 

He regrets that she does sound a bit put out having to hear the information like this from a third- albeit her favorite- party. Tommy makes a face and takes the call off speaker phone. Clearly this had become a private conversation, and before storming off to his room, he sends his mates one last scathing stare which only sends them into more hysterics. 

************************************************************

**_Est-ce une maladie ordinaire? Un garçon qui aime un garçon._  
(Is it an ordinary disease? A boy who loves a boy.) **

**Le privilège by Michel Sardou**

Back in his room, he throws the heat on, shivering in his thin shirt and joggers. He circles back and locks his door, just in case, readying an excuse. 

“Mum, so—er, it’s not… it’s not a girlfriend, exactly.” 

The seconds ticking between that sentence and the next one feel infinite. Tommy taps his foot, biting a nail, eye catching where he’d left his laptop open, the mixtape burned forever there. 

“Oh, Tommy, stop biting your nails. I can hear it through the phone,” she chuckles nervously. He can hear her talk softly to someone in the background and he gets up, drops his hand and paces instead. 

“I’ll make you fish sticks later, love. Why don’t you have a cup of tea? Make you feel better, won’t it?” Her voice sounds far away. A cup of tea did sound rather nice right now, but Tommy reconsiders going back into the kitchen just yet. 

“Sorry, dear, sorry. Kitty’s been in an absolute strop all afternoon,” her sigh sounds world-weary. It was becoming a bit of a habit for Tommy’s Year 7 sister, but he knew this would only serve to distract his mother for a moment. 

“Not a bother, Mum. She probably just misses her friends and all. I mean,” 

“Now, what is this about the _private_ tutor?” 

“Er, yes, a private tutor. For French. He’s French.” Tommy can feel his face go red. 

“He’s French,” Mary echoes him, but he’s not sure if it’s a statement or a question.

There’s a long pause before she goes on, “So then, not quite a girlfriend is it? And not a boyfriend then either, I take it?” 

Tommy swallows a mouthful of words, shrugging his shoulders like she’d see it. 

“No, not one, but hopefully, y’know,” he’s sitting on his bed now, wringing his hands, phone beside him with the speaker on again. “He’s from France.”

“So you’ve said.” 

Tommy nods, “And he decided to stay here to celebrate a proper Christmas and that.” He winces when his voice goes squeaky at the end. He shouldn't feel embarrassed, he told himself. 

His mum sees it otherwise, giving him a shocked tut. 

“Proper Christmas? _With you lot?_ ”

“ _Mum,_ ” Tommy whinges down the line. 

“Well, what did he expect? What’s his name?”

“Philippe,” Tommy can’t help the grin that breaks across his face. 

“Well, what is this Philippe fellow expecting? He’s definitely missed the Pantos, but you could maybe do a nice film on telly instead. Not the same though...” 

Tommy laughs, “Mum, we’ve definitely missed the window for a Panto, thanks.” His mum makes an affronted noise.

“I _love_ Pantos!”

Even for him, the Christmas pantomimes were more camp than he could handle.

“Sorry, I know, I know,” he stands back up, pacing, but with a smile. “We’re just going to have a nice little dinner on Christmas. Watch films. A quiet one in.” 

“Sounds lovely, dear. I’m sure you and the lads can make something out of it.” 

Hopefully, she was right. 

They had absolutely no decorations to speak of. Alex had placed a hard ban on all Christmas music while in the flat. He’d already shunned the carolers outside on their street just last week. Peter’s only contribution was his collection of sweaters and newsboy caps, but that didn’t really count as that was a usual occurrence. They weren’t a bunch of Scrooges though. But really how many renditions of ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ can one really stand? At least the Americans only really have to suffer for twenty days or so, his seminar leader Farrier had told him. 

Tommy remembers the exact moment they started blasting “Last Christmas” in the local Tescos down the road shortly after an awkward Halloween season. Farrier told him Americans had Thanksgiving to stress about right after October, but Tommy didn’t think that gave them much of a break either. 

The only one with any real Christmas spirit was George and he didn’t even live with them. The only gift exchange they’d done together was the one last week with Philippe. Otherwise, it had been finishing up module exams and essays for weeks on end and surviving the cold, wet, and windy North. 

Honestly, maybe this Christmas dinner was just what they needed to bring back some spirit. 

“Alright, Tommy,” he can hear the smile in his mum’s voice. “How about that pudding recipe then?” 

************************************************************

**_How can it be that we can say so much without words? Bless you and bless me. Bless the bees and the birds._ **

**It Must Be Love - Madness**

It is now three days before Christmas and all the Lads have gotten is a Yorkshire pudding recipe.

“Couldn’t you have just looked it up online, though?” 

Tommy was not in the mood for George’s sensible questions. They were in crisis mode. He holds his head in his hands, trying to stave off the impending headache. Clearly none of them knew what the fuck they were doing except George. He just wants to be helpful, doesn’t he?

Peter interrupts Tommy’s mental dilemma with planning sensibilities, “Shall we have the traditional roast turkey with chestnuts or go for a nice goose?”

“I saw a goose in Leazes Park the other day.” George pipes up. 

“Oh, excellent, George! Let’s go out and hunt for geese at the park, shall we?”

“Children, children,” Peter taps the side of his pot of porridge with a wooden spoon. “No one is hunting geese at the park. They’re property of Her Majesty, the Queen.” George smiles at Peter's mocking tone. 

“I think it’s the swans actually.”

“Great, so the geese are free game then?” 

“No one is shooting a goose, George. Now, back to the turkey or goose,” Peter eyes George. “ _From the shops._ Which should we get?” 

Tommy shrugs his shoulders, looking at his bank account on his phone. 

“The cheaper option?” 

“Roast chicken it is!” Peter grabs his notepad from where he’s stood by the hob, minding his porridge and making a shopping list. So domestic that one. 

Peter turns to them with a beaming grin, notepad in his hands. “Right, so we have Tommy’s Yorkshire pudding with gravy and roast chicken,” he puts his hands on his hips. “ _How ‘bout dat?_ ” 

Tommy purses his lips together in a line to keep from laughing or wincing, not sure which he’d rather do.

“Please never do that again, and yeah. Sounds like a good start.”

“Oi, Oi!” That could only be one person. 

“Did I hear someone say _winner-winner?_ ” Alex’s booming voice fills up the room and all the cold, wintry snow he was tracking inside as well. 

“A blizzard outside, lads. Look,” he points out toward the wintry mix from the kitchen’s massive windows, overlooking the street. George rushes to the counter for a peek. 

His face lights up. “Oh, that’s sick! Love a white Christmas, y’know?” 

“Me too,” Alex shuffles back toward the kitchen settee, slipping out of his layers, and throwing himself across Tommy who'd been sitting there. 

“We’re making a list, Alex,” Peter calls, taste testing his breakfast. “We need to pick up a few things from the shops in…” He stops to check his phone. “...in two days time.”

What _was_ today?

“Shit!” Tommy breaths out, spiralling. They were running out of time. 

“Wait, when is Christmas?” Alex huffs out, legs kicking into Tommy. 

“The twenty-fifth?” George turns back to him readying a bowl for Peter’s porridge. 

“What? No, what day is it? Saturday?” 

“Friday.” Tommy deadpans, pushing Alex’s long legs out of the way so he can sit up again. 

“Ah, well, not to worry. We can make this work!” Tommy holds his head again. “C’mon, Tom! Where’s your Dunkirk spirit?” 

Peter rolls his eyes. 

“Alex, we weren’t at bloody Dunkirk. That’s _not_ the same thing.”

“You know what I mean! We just have to get our shit together and make a plan,” Peter shakes his notepad at him. “So, what else do we need?” 

“So far,” Peter stands at the table. “We’ve got the Yorkshire pudding and all. A roast chicken, no goose. And George is now mouthing to me... _poppers?_ ” Peter’s face goes as red as his winter sweater. 

Alex clears his throat, a smile threatening to break across his face. “Eh, Georgie, don’t you mean christmas crackers?”

George shrugs his shoulders, “Aye. Crackers. Poppers. Same thing.” 

All they can do is stare at Peter who’s on the cusp of combusting. He shakes his head at George, sitting down beside him. 

“Definitely not the same, George,” he whispers.

George looks genuinely confused. “What? Me dad always—“ 

“Should I go out and get George’s christmas gift then?” Alex asks, smirking at Peter. 

“Piss off, Alex. And no,” he smooths out his sweater, before tucking into his porridge. “Absolutely not.”

Tommy rolls his eyes at all of them. 

“Okay, so what else is there?” 

Peter raises his eyebrows at him. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, like. What about a tree?” 

“What about a tree?” Alex pouts, looking down at his phone. 

“Dunno. Where are we meant to find a tree on such late bloody notice?” George raises his hand at the table. 

“I’ll get one.” 

Alex looks up. “Ey, mate, we’re not at primary, put your hand down,” George flips him off instead. “I’ll go with ya.” 

Peter scribbles some more in his notepad as Tommy says, “Peter, shouldn’t we have something vegetarian?” Peter stops writing, eyebrow going up.

“You didn’t say Philippe’s a vegetarian…”

“No, you are, though. So…” 

Alex laughs at something on his phone, “We’ll just feed him sprouts.” Peter just levels him with an unimpressed stare. 

“I’ll just make a nice salmon lemon drizzle for me, and I’ll do up the root veg as well. Does anyone have a particular favourite, or?” 

Now, Alex raises his hand.

“I’m sprout averse, so…” 

Peter chucks a tea towel at him. 

“So, any real requests?” When he’s met with silence, he claps his hands together. “Great. We’re all having root veg and that’s an order.” 

Alex nudges into Tommy’s side with his elbow, whispering, “Runs a tight ship this one, doesn’t he?” Tommy grins. 

And to think his mum doubted their Christmas spirit at all.

George hums, shoveling in the last bits of his breakfast. “Pigs in a blanket?” Peter tips his head toward him. 

“Why not go all in?” 

“Mince pies?” Peter jots that down.

“Obviously.” Tommy mumbles. Alex sits up, jostling him. 

“Alcohol?” Peter rolls his eyes.

“Is that even a necessary question?”

“Yes...,” Peter picks his head up, pen suspended from writing. “I mean, do we have any?” 

Peter scrunches his nose, thinking, “Got a few cans of Dark Fruits and Stella in the fridge,” he pouts his lip. “But not much else.” 

“Fine. I’ll cover that then.” 

Peter pushes his empty bowl away, turning fully now to his complete list. 

“Alright men, does everyone have their order?” He doesn’t wait for a reply, just dives straight in. “George, you find a decently sized tree with Alex. Alex, you’re getting alcohol. Tommy, you’ve got the Yorkshire pudding, gravy, and your birthday suit, eh?” Peter winks; Tommy flips him off with a grin as Peter continues. 

“And I’ve got the main meats and veg. Result!” Alex nods his approval, mumbling about whether or not he had time to take a trip up to Edinburgh for scotch. 

“We’ve got, what? Two days?” George asks the room. “It only takes an hour from here by train to get to Edinburgh, right?” Alex nods. 

“See?” Alex stands up to ruffle George’s hair. “This is why we keep you around.” He swings back to grab his winter coat and backpack before shuffling toward the door, giving a farewell salute before leaving. 

“Better get going then. As you were, lads.” 

Peter calls out at his retreating form, “Just be back in time to help George with the tree, Alex!” 

Tommy grins, watching George and Peter putting away their dishes at the sink. Peter ruffles George’s hair back into place with a soft smile. 

Proper mother hen. 

************************************************************

**_So can I call you tonight? I’m trying to make up my mind, just how I feel. Could you tell me what’s real?_ **

**Can I Call You Tonight - Dayglow**

It’s two days before Christmas and Tommy eats another mince pie and wonders if any of his flatmates cry at the sound of Auld Lang Syne… or was it just him?

He hadn’t done much that day except a quick run to Sainsbury, a call to Alex to make sure he was still alive, and contemplating Christmas songs for a playlist with only one or two mince pies. 

_Honest._

Peter catches him shoveling in his fifth, making Tommy retreat back to his room with Peter giving him his best reproachful look. 

Tommy leans against the cold wooden door of his room, hearing the click go softly as he checks his phone again for word from Philippe.

He sighs.

_No new messages._

Tommy flops himself on his bed, belly first, with a severe pout. He opens up Spotify and his new playlist, Britmas. Especially created for Philippe’s first Christmas here. He turns the sound up, as Alex wasn’t back yet and he knew Peter didn’t really mind it. Besides, George was on his way round and he’d be distracted. 

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas filters through his thoughts as he flips over onto his back. 

Wasn’t it strange how Philippe had gone and kicked him out after their talk last Friday? Tommy could’ve sworn he’d been leaning in for a kiss. He hadn’t imagined that right? I mean, sure, they’d both had a bit to drink - whiskey and wine, respectively- but there was definitely _something_ there. Tommy wasn’t just imagining it.

He closes his eyes, letting the music wash over him, like Philippe had once taught him to do. Imagine it’s a great, big wave, he’d said. Are you sure you’re not in the wrong course of study, Philippe, Tommy had asked him. Philippe's face went solemn at that, but he told Tommy he was wrong. Music was just a passion. 

Tommy had accepted the answer without further argument. 

Last Christmas comes on next and Tommy cringes, but carries on. 

He remembered they’d had one of their French music sessions. Terrible accent aside, Tommy loved singing in French. He thought it the best accomplishment, even though he could never quite remember the words. One morning, he’d stumbled upon Pierre Lapointe, where he wore flowers in his hair and was in the arms of a dark haired man. Tommy never clicked on a video so fast. At their session, later that same day, he’d told Philippe about him. Giving absolutely nothing away, Philippe had simply reported that Pierre wrote about love. Full stop. 

He wished Philippe would throw him a bone. Or, anything for that matter. Getting shooed away after a heated moment on his bedroom floor made him doubt his suspicions that the feelings between them were mutual. Tommy runs his hands through his hair with a loud groan.

Why couldn’t Philippe just call? Or text? Why couldn’t he just tell him how he really felt?

“Alright in there, mate? Mind if I pop in or, or do you need another minute?” Peter asks with all the cautiousness of a mother who doesn’t want to accidentally catch her son having a wank. Although, if it were his own mother she’d just walk in anyway. 

“No, yeah, sorry!” He shouts half-heartedly. “Come in.” Peter pokes his head round the doorframe, sees the coast is clear, and slips into the room.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

Tommy shrugs, another pout. 

“Ah, has he not texted?” 

Tommy shakes his head, hair flopping into his face. He should really get a new year’s haircut.

“Don’t worry, mate. He probably just doesn’t know what to say.”

“Literally anything would do. A ‘hello’ would make a good start.” Peter looks away, leaning against the wall.

“Fair enough,” Peter clears his throat and Tommy looks up at him expectantly. “So, I was wondering…”

“Would you mind running to the shops with me? George was meant to come along, but he’s been on the right mission to get this tree. Alex be damned.” He chuckles, a fond look coming to his face.

“You really like him, don’t you?”

“Who, Alex? Of course not. We all tolerate him, don’t we?” Peter chucks a pair of boots Tommy’s way. “Wear your heavy coat as well. Windy today and all.” 

Tommy does as he’s told and despite not wanting to, he checks his phone again. 

_No new messages._

With a sigh and a scarf around his neck, he follows Peter out of the flat.

“Where are you going?” Tommy stops, mid-walk. Peter’s going left, in the opposite direction. 

“Sainsbury.”

“We’re going to Waitrose, Tommy.” 

Tommy tilts his head at him. 

“Is that why George didn’t…?”

Peter nods, sighing and rolling his eyes. “That is why George didn’t want to come along. Got a campaign going against them. Won’t step foot in a Waitrose.” He runs his hands through his golden blonde fringe and rights his tweed cap again. 

“He says ‘the only good thing Waitrose has got going for them is a Christmas advert’.” Tommy shrugs. 

“Is he wrong though?” 

“Honestly! The lot of you!”

“Sainsbury is just as well, mate. Cheaper too.”

“Well, I’m surprised you’re not pulling me along to Tesco.” Tommy stops, throwing his thumb behind, looking in the opposite way. 

“Should I? It’s just up down the road, a rather big one at that,” Peter rolls his eyes, but laughs. “There’s even Poundland, just next door.” 

“Oh and an Oxfam next door, right?” 

Tommy shakes his head, “No, it’s a Red Cross, I think.” 

Peter blows a raspberry, crossing a side street and going in a side-way to the city centre.

“They’re good shops, mate, c’mon.” Tommy nudges him with an elbow. 

“Ugh, Tommy, I know,” he links his arm with him. “I just like egging you all on as if I wouldn’t dare to shop at Poundland. Defo not above it, mate. Alex on the other hand?” 

“You think he’s alright? Has he called since going to Edinburgh?” 

“Called George and told him he bought a scotch for 50 quid, thirty Freddos, and a portrait of the Queen for two pound fifty.”

Tommy furrows his eyebrows. “How much did he pay for the Freddos?” 

Peter unhooks his arm and reaches for a green shopping basket. It’s busy just up front where all the veg is, as people mill about doing last minute shopping. 

“Outrageously expensive, I suspect, but you know Alex.” Peter stops to look at parsnips.

Tommy nods. Alex was an impulsive buyer. But, wait. Hang on.

“Did you say a portrait of _the Queen?_ ” 

“It was for Philippe’s benefit, I suspect. He knows we’re not monarchists. He just likes to be contrarian.” 

“Well, does he think Philippe is? It’s not like he’s American. I don’t even think Philippe watches The Crown.” 

“God, maybe he’ll make us watch it?”

“Who?”

“Alex! I bet he secretly is one.” Tommy considers buying overpriced Christmas crackers, but relents and focuses on Lily Allen overheard talking about the end of everything. 

“It’s probably for the kitsch.” 

“It’s probably for the kitsch,” Peter agrees, swatting Tommy’s hand. “Stay away from those. I saw some less than that at Oxfam.” 

Tommy gives him a none too surprised grin. 

“What? George likes their little fair trade chocolates.”

Maybe that was what the Christmas spirit was all about. Shattering our assumptions, our prejudices, and general grumpiness and doing something special for others. 

Tommy’s phone pings in his pocket. 

**Philippe:** Salut, Tommy! I’m sorry our session was so sad last week. How are you? I am at the shop now to bring a treat for the Chrismas dinner. 

It pings again. 

**Philippe:** J'ai hâte de te le montrer..

************************************************************

**_Nombreux sont ceux qui séduisent. Nombreux sont ceux qui dansent près de moi. Ils pourraient être les plus riches. Tu sais que mes yeux ne suivent que toi._ **

**(There are many who seduce. There are many who dance near me. They could be the richest. You know my eyes only follow you.)**

**Nombreux - Angèle**

Hannah and Oliver were the very last of his housemates to leave for the holiday season. Philippe gave a smile, a hug, and Joyeux Noël to them both. He really couldn’t bear any grudge. It was Christmas and he just wanted to focus on something that would boost morale again. 

He retreated back to the kitchen where the ingredients for a Bûche de Noël awaited him. 

He hoped his text message hadn’t come too late to Tommy. He’d been mulling and sulking all weekend thinking about what he could possibly say to him to make up for kicking him out after their disastrous French session. Wasn’t even a French session, but more like a pitiful unveiling. 

Philippe throws on an apron and some English Christmas music from a playlist called Britmas. It was _ringard_ , but it made Philippe smile and that’s just what he needed. 

It didn’t take long for his hips to move along to the beat as Brenda Lee’s Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree comes through the bluetooth speakers. 

He hadn’t planned much else besides la bûche and a bottle of Bordeaux. He was excited that there was lots of snow and he’d watched a ballet of two on YouTube already to celebrate the season. On the phone to his mum and sisters, he learned that they wanted him to document every bit of his Christmas away from home. His mum even got teary at the end when he told her that he was making a Bûche de Noël for his friend Tommy. 

I know you’ll make it with love, she’d told him. 

He’d grinned, nodding, hoping he wasn’t blushing. He’d do absolutely nothing less. 

Speaking of, he wondered as he whisked the cocoa, egg, and flour batter, had Tommy even listened to his mixtape. On second thought, he really hoped he hadn’t. Philippe had been entirely too forward in his song choices hadn’t he? Who was he to proclaim that love was in the cards?

He was a professional, as he stubbornly told himself. It would simply turn Tommy off. 

Or… maybe it was just the thing that would turn him on?

He puts the mixer on too high and wet cocoa whips him in the face. 

He’d heard from Farrier and Collins just the other day that the family meeting had gone off without a hitch, despite Farrier’s nerves wrecking havoc. Collins’ grandfather had made him drink half a bottle of fire whiskey and that apparently was all it took to bring him into the fold. Philippe smiles at the selfie they’d sent him. 

We expect one from you and Tommy as well, Farrier admonished. Funny, his mother and sisters had practically said the same. Make a photo together and send it to us! Who is this mystery English boy you fancy? They all loved to tease him.

_Maybe Tommy would be up for it._

Philippe sets about tidying the kitchen and dancing along to Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town. 

_Maybe Tommy would be up for more._

He eyes the calendar posted on the fridge as a date stands out to him. He blows a puff of breath, looking out to the wintry mix covering outside his street.

He’d rather stay in for dinner and a film with Tommy any day. He wouldn’t subject himself to further embarrassment with ice skating, as suggested by Candice. He didn’t need the events calendar and as his morale seemed to elevate higher, maybe he didn’t need the counseling sessions either?

He bites his lip. 

If he wanted to keep this feeling, he told himself, he’d better go and sort himself out. Besides, he wanted to be in top form for the summer concert Tommy had gifted him. He didn’t want an awful summer depression plaguing him, too. 

Bûche de Noël chilling in the fridge for the day after tomorrow, Philippe fills out an online form to continue with counseling. 

For Tommy. 

For love.

For the future.

But more importantly, for himself. 

**********************************************************

**_I made wine from the lilac tree. Put my heart in its recipe. It makes me see what I want to see and be what I want to be._ **

**Lilac Wine - Jeff Buckley**

It’s finally Christmas morning and the kitchen at the Lads flat is busy and bustling with Alex absolutely nowhere to be seen.

“Where the hell is he?” Peter cuts up the last bits of potatoes. “He was supposed to be helping George with the tree.” 

“Didn’t he say he would be here last night?” Tommy asks, stealing a freshly cut carrot to eat. 

“Yes, now stop eating our lunch.” Peter smacks Tommy’s hand with a spoon and throws the cut potatoes on a pan for the oven. He’d been in the kitchen since 7 am that morning, apron on this time, prepping this and that. Tommy, begrudging the early hour got up not too long after to help decorate with the Christmas crackers, wreaths, and lights they’d picked up at Oxfam and Poundland.

Peter’s phone goes off, playing a twinkling sound. 

“That’ll be George. I told him to pick up some more mince pies and pop round since you’d finished them off yesterday.” 

“Can I be blamed Peter? They’re the best bit of Christmas.” Tommy grins, draping around the last bits of lights around the settee and fridge. 

“Yes, you can and I am blaming you,” Peter turns to flick on the TV. “Shall we ready the Queen’s speech?”

Tommy narrows his eyes at him.

“What is up with you and the Queen for God’s sake?” 

The kitchen door flies open and George bustles in with his shopping from Sainsbury. He tracks snow in by his boots and Peter tuts at him. 

“Nice to see you too!” George tells him with a kiss to his cheek. “I got your shopping and all.” Peter freezes and Tommy raises his eyebrows up at them. 

“Well…” Tommy shakes his head in almost disbelief. “This is new.” 

“Is it?” George, the absolute fox, winks. Peter is utterly speechless. George busies himself unpacking the mince pies and extra Christmas crackers. 

“I got the poppers!” He announces with a cheeky grin. 

The kitchen door bangs open again and a sludgy mush of snow tracks across the floor.

“Oh Georgie, you devil! Went for the poppers, eh?” 

“And a kiss on the cheek!” Tommy adds with a laugh, as Alex comes straight over and leaps across the settee.

“Must you do that?” Tommy eyes him, smelling like a place more grim than Birmingham. 

“Of course, Thomas. You know I love to wind you up!” 

Alex reaches into his backpack, his face flushed from the cold. “What did I miss then?” 

Tommy looks between George who’s stuffing his face with a mince pie and Peter who is still staring in disbelief at George. 

“Well, you’ve just missed the kiss that George gave Peter just now.” Alex’s eyes go wide as he cackles with hysteric enthusiasm. 

“Yes!! You owe me fifty quid, Pete.” The boy in question just rolls his eyes and mumbles something about not giving him shit. 

“Also, if Tommy gets lucky later tonight you also owe me another fifty quid. That’s a hundred quid, mate.” Peter claps. 

“Alright, mate, you can do quick maths. Well done.” 

Alex rolls his eyes, sitting up and digging into the backpack he’d carried in. 

“Oh you better wise up. I got you a gift while I was away.” 

If Peter was the mother hen of the flat, Alex was definitely the father. 

“Did ya?”

Alex brandishes the amateur portrait of the Queen from his bag and raises his eyebrows at Peter. 

“Peter, there’s two things in this world that you can’t hide from me: your love of the monarchy and your love for George Mills, here.” 

George and Peter both look away from each other, twisting their mouths to keep from grinning. 

“I’m not a bloody monarchist for the last time,”Peter says, snatching the portrait up. “I just fancy the show, like everybody else.” 

“If you could come back in another life, you’d be a royal wouldn’t you?” Tommy asks Peter as he places the portrait just under the telly framed in festive tinsel. 

“Nah, I’d rather be a sailor if I were honest.” 

“Given your course, that only makes sense. What else is a Marine Technology degree good for?” Alex settles the bottles of scotch and Scottish Whiskey on the table, taking a cursory picture for his Twitter. 

“Are we missing anything then?” George asks, eating another mince pie.

Peter consults his list again. 

“Tommy’s making the Yorkshire puddings in a bit… the only other thing now is… picking with Christmas film we should all watch later?” 

George raises his hand.

Peter suppresses a smile and keeps Alex for mocking George’s sometimes schoolboy ways. 

“Can I vote for a Christmas advert?”

“Yeah, go on.” 

“The 1914 Sainsbury advert.” 

Peter grins, beaming practically, already scrambling to set up the telly to Alex’s PlayStation. 

“That’s the best one!”

“Told you Sainsbury is better than Waitrose.” Tommy nudges Peter’s backside with his toe, sending Peter forward into the wall. 

“Oi, watch it Mister Tesco. By the way,” he straightens the Queen portrait. “When’s your _amour_ coming round?” 

Tommy can’t stop his heart from hammering. 

“I, er- I told him at two?” 

“Perfect,” Peter replies, shuffling on YouTube until he could find the advert. George is sat on the settee beside Alex, mince pie in hand, and already wiping away tears. 

“Anyone else tear up at Auld Lang Syne when it comes on?” He says, biting into his pie. 

Tommy looks at him wide-eyed. He’d really found his people. 

“Alright, lads. Are we ready?” Peters looks back at them, ready to press play.

Alex pours himself a shot of whiskey. Tommy whines until Alex does up one for him too. 

“Ready!” Alex sings. Tommy dips the warm, spicy liquid down his throat.

“Wait, hold on, hold on!” Tommy jumps up, facing Alex and George. 

“Wow, Tommy. Hit you a bit hard, didn’t it?” Alex nudges George’s side to get him to laugh. 

“Where’s the tree?”

“Where’s the tree?”

“Yes, the Christmas tree, Alex, that you were meant to find with George?” George looks down, eyes meeting everywhere except to Tommy’s. 

Alex blows a raspberry. “Oh, yeah! I knew I forgot something.” 

He reaches across George for his backpack and pulls out a small cardboard box.

“You’ll never guess what I found at the Tescos just down the road on my way this morning,” he opens the box to reveal a Christmas tree, no more than 30 centimeters tall. “It’ll look perfect next to the Queen.” Peter shrugs his shoulders.

“I really can’t disagree. That’s lush, Alex. Good one.” 

Not even Tommy could deny the placement looked rather lovely, even if he didn’t care for the royals at all. 

He settles back into his seat, Peter hopping over the arm to sit beside him. 

“Happy Christmas, everyone.”


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philippe shows up for Christmas dinner bearing all sorts of gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue is here! Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> .xx
> 
> Check out the playlist on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4CfXLlBBcvOEFbQlskkbZW?si=mCcLhgP1SGCttpQGm4p2iw
> 
> 1) Une Lettre - Pierre Lapointe  
> 2) Le privilège - Michel Sardou   
> 3) Suck It and See - Arctic Monkeys  
> 4) All the Seas - Jake Houlsby  
> 5) It Must Be Love - Madness  
> 6) Can I Call You Tonight? - Dayglow  
> 7) Nombreux - Angèle  
> 8) Lilac Wine - Jeff Buckley  
> 9) Don’t Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder) - The Beach Boys  
> 10) Strange Magic - Electric Light Orchestra

**_Don’t talk, take my hand and listen to my heartbeat. Listen, Listen, Listen._ **

**Don’t Talk (Put Your Head On My Shoulder) - The Beach Boys**

It was finally Christmas dinner and for once the Lads were prepared and the sprouts were actually sort of edible. 

Philippe had joined them just shy of two o’clock with a Yule Log cake and red wine. Alex, of course, had to playfully make fun of him for greeting them with a _‘Merry Crimbo’._ Philippe got enough grief from his housemates, so Tommy gave him a disapproving tut for that.

Dinner was fabulous, with Peter filling everyone’s plates sky high and telling Alex off for not wearing his Christmas crown at the table. The jokes were so bad, they wouldn’t make Tommy’s grandad chuckle and Philippe got the world’s smallest rubix cube in his Christmas cracker. His Yule Log was the perfect pair for the wine he brought, so said Peter. And to top it off, Philippe had even given the Lads personalised key rings with a matching wintry bobble hat, gloves, and scarf for Christmas.

“That’s really kind of you, Philippe. Cheers, mate.” The Frenchman beams as Peter pulls him in for a tight hug before trying on his new royal blue scarf. 

“Suits you.” George playfully nuzzles Peter’s neck with the bobble bit of his new hat. 

“Likewise.” Peter says with a giggle. It was like that from dinner, the round of whiskey shots, and through the Christmas film everyone voted on, _Love Actually._ Die Hard was a close second, but Philippe had already seen that one. 

It was barely six o’clock when Peter announced they were going to watch another movie, when Philippe interrupted him to say, rather loudly, “Tommy, can we go to your room? I want to give you another Christmas present.” 

“Fucking hell, mate. Spare Tommy his blushes, why don’t you?” Alex laughs, slapping Tommy across the back with a settee pillow, watching Tommy’s face turn crimson. 

“ _Spare his blushes?_ What do you mean?” 

Alex just stares at him as Tommy positively melts between the two of them. George can hardly contain his laughter. 

“Eh, Philippe, did you happen to bring along the gifts Alex and I got you?” Peter quirks up an eyebrow, waiting for Tommy to protest an answer. 

“Well, _actually_ —” Philippe begins. 

“Right, that’s it. C’mon. Goodnight, everyone!” Tommy directs Philippe and his backpack out the door and into his room. He locks the door behind him for good measure, but then kind of regrets it when he sees the face Philippe makes. 

“Sorry, I don’t want to assume anything, it’s just that knowing Alex he’d come barreling through, trying to surprise us or take a video, _god._..he did that once when I was in club last year. I’d had so much to drink and we were all dancing and having a good time when this guy came up and starting kissing me and later on that night Alex had sent a photo of the two of us—me and the guy, not me and Alex— kissing. Like, properly tonguing and all and _god_ , it was so embarrassing even though it was just us lads there. I mean, I didn’t even know the guy, obviously. I was just drunk! And happy,” Tommy sucks in a big breath, watching as Philippe goes to stand before him, a soft grin across his face. 

Tommy lets out a shaky breath, trying to get his bearings, but finding it rather difficult with Philippe watching him so intensely.

“Sorry, sorry, I just get kind of nervous, y’know? And then you said you had another gift for me?” Philippe nod, reaching for his bag and pulling out a white slip of paper. “Is it a poem?” 

Philippe chuckles, stepping closer.

“A song?”

“No,” Philippe sings, moving forward an inch. There wasn’t much room anyway. Tommy’s bed, just to the right of them, was only a hair away and on the other side was the wall and heater. Tommy felt trapped, but in a really, really good way. 

Philippe’s dark green eyes match the sweater he wears, watching Tommy, shift from foot to foot under his attention. 

“What is it?” Philippe steps forward and pins the paper to Tommy’s bulletin board.

“I hope you are free on the 23rd of June?” 

“That’s the Jake Houlsby gig.”

Philippe nods.

“I know,” Philippe steps closer. “You gave me two tickets, remember?”

Tommy pulls at his collar, “Did I?” 

Philippe grins, “You did.” 

Was it hot to anyone else?

“Are you warm? Shall we turn off the heat?” Philippe falls back onto the bed to watch Tommy mess about with the heating. 

“It’s not on.” 

Tommy pulls at his collar again before pulling the jumper off entirely. Philippe doesn’t miss the strip of skin he bares as he does so.

“It’s not? _Christ,_ ” Tommy turns, practically fleeing for his bay window to crack open, climbing his desk to reach it. “Can’t go wrong with fresh air, I guess.” He stumbles into his laptop as he scales down, the mixtape popping out of its hiding place. 

It doesn’t pass Philippe’s notice. 

“Have you listened it yet?” Tommy turns to him. 

It sounded like he was almost scared to even ask. As if the answer could be that Tommy hadn’t… that Tommy hadn’t heard Philippe bear his heart through the lyrics of his favourite songs, for them to wash over Tommy like _a great, big wave._

Even still, Tommy trips up his answer. Philippe goes to him.

“Uh, I have. Yes, I have, it’s quite good.” 

“Good?” Philippe grins at that.

Tommy nods, rendered speechless as Philippe moves closer still, practically pinning him to his desk, the edge digging slightly into Tommy’s back.

Tommy can smell the whiskey on his breath, he’s so close. Philippe does nothing but look at him and it has the boy’s nerves struck. 

“Tommy, _“je suis silencieux... fasciné’”,_ ” Philippe’s voice goes incredibly soft as he runs a thumb across the Englishman’s chin. _“”J'ai peur d'avoir mal en tombant”._ ” It’s so quiet, Tommy’s not entirely sure what he’s just said. 

“Tell me again,” Tommy says in a whisper. 

“When I look at you, I am silent, _fascinated._ I’m afraid of hurting myself when I fall.” 

Philippe drops his hand to find Tommy’s. It’s cold and Philippe cups it toward his chest. A fresh breeze blows through, sending in a rush of cold, wintry rain. 

Tommy winces as it hits his back and he turns to put the window back down. It was the only thing he could do to avoid saying something stupid again like he had earlier. He was a trainwreck when he got nervous. 

“Is that an original, or?” He turns to look at Philippe who was popping the mixtape back into Tommy’s laptop. 

“No,” The Frenchman answers, distracted. “It’s _Le monarque des Indes._ You know it.” Tommy turns back to him as the CD begins to play. 

“I do?” Philippe nods, taking Tommy’s hand again, and pulling him toward him.

“Pierre Lapointe. You showed me him. The singer from Canada.” 

They’re practically slow dancing and Tommy’s head is positively spinning. Is it the cold? The heat? Philippe bends to flick that on. Is it Philippe’s intoxicating cologne? The prospect of a summer love with Philippe in the near future? And what had he meant exactly about it ‘hurting to fall’?

“Yeah... right. The love song.”

“That’s all they are.” Philippe tells him, spinning him, making Tommy giggle. It was ridiculous. They were doing a terrible job at it, at least Tommy was. He didn’t dance. He didn’t cook. But, maybe he could with Philippe. Maybe he could do a lot more. 

Philippe holds him, in favour of more spinning.

They come to a point where Philippe’s arms are wrapped around Tommy, his hands meeting just at the base of the Englishman’s back. 

“I certainly wasn’t expecting this, when you said you had a Christmas present for me,” Tommy’s voice picks up speed. “I honestly thought for a minute you were referring to the present from Alex and Peter and _god_ , they will not let me live it down. I’ve already told you about the kissing in the club, yeah? Can you imagine?” Tommy leans back to look at Philippe. 

“They’d never let me live it down. Alex has already been moaning about how much I play your mixtape, by the way. I just think he’s been rather lonely and that. Can’t fault him for it, though. He’s the type of bloke that always needs someone around... I mean, the winter’s always rather rough isn’t it?” 

“Tommy?” 

“Yeah?” 

Tommy meets Philippe’s watchful eyes. It was singlehandedly the most fascinating thing about him, apart from the fact that he could sing really well. Philippe continues cradling Tommy in his arms, fingers caressing across his back, regarding him. 

Could Philippe hear it, Tommy’s heartbeat? 

Tommy begins swaying into him, wishing he’d feel Philippe’s hands in his hair. But they’re steady and cautious, running circles across his back. Tommy hardly suppresses a whine at that and leans into Philippe’s shoulder, his nose in the juncture. He nudges the spot with his nose and sighs when Philippe says,

“Suck it and see.” 

_Good god_ , what else could Tommy coax out of him?

“Do what?” 

“The song...you know, on the mixtape? It sounds naughty, right?” Philippe actually giggles at that, leaving Tommy just looking at him like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever said. 

“Eh… yeah, not quite what they were meaning, I think, but...” Tommy loses his words when he feels Philippe’s fingers ghost across his neck and ears. This man was trying to end his life, weren’t he?

Tommy shivers again, despite the heat beside them.

Philippe hums and redirects them to the bed, stumbling as he does, tripping on Tommy’s rug. 

“Sorry, sorry!” He apologizes, his brawny frame nearly tackling Tommy to the bed. _Sorry, he says,_ Tommy thinks, trying to give Philippe his best heady look.

“Trying to get me into bed are you?” 

“It was the rug! I wasn’t _trying._ ”

Tommy laughs, “Please do, I won’t stop you.” He says, feeling bold, fireball whiskey on his tongue. 

Tommy reaches up and fits his hands within the wiry curls of Philippe’s hair, massaging pleased sighs and moans right on the cusp of being obscene. Philippe seems to melt into him, a comfortable weight on top of Tommy. 

“I feel hypnotized.” It puts a satisfied grin on Tommy’s face as he continues his ministrations. Philippe’s face, slack with pleasure, rubs across Tommy’s chest, across pebbled nipples. 

Tommy gasps.

Philippe’s head snaps up to check on him. He grins at what he finds. 

A positively glowing flush high on Tommy’s cheeks, coupled with dark, lidded eyes, and a bottom lip trapped under perfectly crooked front teeth. 

_Lush._

Philippe lifts himself above Tommy, arms framing his face, looking down at him with a fond look. He focuses on the sweep of Tommy’s dark lashes.

“I told myself I shouldn’t want you.” He admits. 

“Why?” Tommy asks in a hoarse voice.

“I’m your private tutor. It seemed… wrong.” Tommy shakes his head, disagreeing. 

“Farrier told me I should totally go for it.”

Philippe laughs at that, “He’s not...the best for such advice, Tommy.” 

“Collins agreed with him.” The Frenchman can’t help but smile at the thought of his friend’s support, but he couldn’t deny the nagging feeling. 

“You always were so cute, but... I didn’t want to do a bad thing.” 

Tommy sighs.

“ _Fine_ , I’ll just get a new private tutor then.”

Philippe frowns at that. 

“No, I wouldn’t like that.” He admits, with a pout. Tommy wants to kiss it into a smile.

“Okay, then I’ll just fail French then.” Philippe sighs, but grins. 

“Not that either.” 

“Okay,” Tommy says, dragging out the syllables. “Do you have any suggestions, _Monsieur Guillet?_ ” He raises an eyebrow for added effect. 

Philippe clears his throat. “I’ll do it… on my own time.”

“Do _what_ , Philippe?” Tommy whispers, watching his mouth. 

“Teach you French.” Philippe leans further, falling to his side, and pulling Tommy closer by his waist. 

“Teach me French…” Tommy echoes, looking between their bodies, the heat between them palpable. “And what else?”

Philippe swears Tommy was inching his leg between his knees, as the Frenchman squeezes the soft part of his hips with a gentle touch. Without meaning to, Tommy’s shirt gives way and reveals the sliver of skin he’d witnessed earlier. He sucks in a quick breath as Philippe’s fingers brush delicately against the jutting bone of Tommy’s hip. The skin jumps at the touch and this time there’s no mistaking the longing whine that Tommy produces because of it. 

“What else?” Tommy practically begs. Tired of his silence, he fits his leg between Philippe’s thighs, fingers finding their way again through his curls. It’s all Tommy needs to feel Philippe’s hardened body against his. 

“This?” Tommy asks, beckoning Philippe to look at him. What would it take for the Frenchman to let down his defenses and just let go? 

“ _Philippe?_ ” 

The Frenchman looks at Tommy, finding his hand and placing it against his chest again. 

“Don’t speak,” he asks, voice hushed. “ _Listen, listen, listen._ ” 

It’s almost a funny thing, their bodies both throbbing together in a sort of musical rhythm. Like love, it’s difficult to just stop the frissions of desire, lighting up their veins. 

“Do you hear it?” Philippe whispers, his words breaking, his eyes misty. He takes Tommy’s hand and places a kiss to his palm. There’s an open expression of wonder across Tommy’s face and he watches, silent, as Philippe pulls him apart like warm bread. 

“Shall we?” Philippe’s formality nearly makes Tommy laugh, but instead takes his breath away. He’s looking at his lips now, swiping a tongue across his own. 

“Suck it and see.”


End file.
